


I Appear Missing

by just_kiss_already



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Abduction, Bath Sex, Beating, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hand Jobs, Implied Cannibalism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Major Character Injury, On Hiatus, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture, Unwilling blood donors, Warnings May Change, implied Joe/Max, implied Max/OMC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-14 02:32:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 17,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4546797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_kiss_already/pseuds/just_kiss_already
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Max had been an Imperator?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's been seven years. Seven long horrible years, a nightmare made flesh and dust.

Staring up at his rig, Max tries to unclench his jaw, relax the aching tense muscles in his shoulders and neck. It doesn't work. Fight or flight. He's a trapped animal and his body knows it.

The progression seems ridiculous, when he thinks about it. The war boys had been impressed with his driving when they'd captured him, told stories while draining him of his blood. It hadn't been long before Max had been promoted to entertainment, the Immortan himself had been curious about this bloodbag. That... That had been a bad year. Max keeps that year locked away, refuses to acknowledge it.

That was when he'd met the Wives. When he'd been kept in that horrible dark vault, muzzled and chained, his own specially-made chastity belt, and-

Max shakes his head. Purposely forgets. A bad year.

Immortan Joe is a jealous man, though, and he hadn't been keen on keeping a healthy full-life male in a locked room with his wives. So he'd put Max to the test, drive or die. Not much of a choice. It'd been easy, though. Comparatively. Max knows how to survive. Has the will and the patience. And a plan. Not only for his own escape, but also for the Wives.

No, he refuses to think of them like that now. Sisters, more like. His family in trauma.

And now this promotion to Imperator. Years of ruthlessness, of fast cars and mouthing empty prayers to an insane warlord. Years of being someone else day and night. Years of death and fire and pain, of doing things he's not proud of, is horrified of. Now, his own war rig, and a chance. It's so close, but he's going to have to be careful. He needs to plan, to consider. Rushing in would be suicide and serve no one, in the end. So close and yet so incredibly, painfully, soul-crushingly far.

"Ready?"

An unreasonably chipper voice, scratchy and rough but cheerful. Second in command of the war rig, an honor for any war boy. Now Nux won't leave Max alone, he's taken a shine to the man and follows him like a lost puppy.

Perhaps puppy is being generous. Max reminds himself, this is a war boy. This is a killer.

Max turns away from his freedom, puts it aside, pushes it from his mind. Won't do to be too eager, can't show it. He takes stock of his second in command. His sergeant. Skinny but tall, ridiculously tall, scarred to look like a skull with an engine on his chest. Too young for the job by half, really, but there had been no one else with the qualifications. They'd met briefly a few times before, Max knew the kid was a reckless driver with his own wheel and lancer, but apparently he gave it up to come serve on the rig.

Dinner time.

If there's one thing Max can be grateful about here, it's the gardens. Dinners for imperators are decent, all things considered. A lot better than the swill that the war boys are given to eat.

The first two nights since the promotion Max had eaten with the other imperators and higher-ups, had played at loyal soldier so no one could question him. But they all know he's a loner and he's been unofficially excused from the dining hall indefinitely. The Immortan, of course, never ate with them. Preferred the security and isolation of his rooms. Lucky for him, because Max plans to slaughter him when he sees him again.

For a minute, Max is thankful for his little bloodthirsty tagalong. Somehow in two days Nux has managed to acquire an impressive knowledge of Max, his routines and preferences. It'd be flattering if it wasn't so unsettling. Without even being asked, the kid got them both dinner from the kitchens and brought it back, set it up in his room, meaning Max won't have to deal with it himself.

Max's little home in the citadel is small, barely furnished, and totally impersonal. He likes it that way. In a small closet-like room, a rusty old bed that squeals and screams when he tosses at night (nightmares, always so many nightmares). And in the bigger room, a couple homemade mattresses doubling as seating, stuffed with what he presumes is hair (god help those poor bloodbags). One ancient-looking wooden table. No chairs. No personal items. This isn't his home and it never will be.

Dinner: vegetables and fruits, some raw and some roasted, and a small portion of some kind of burnt meat. Still better than the slop he always suspected was half sand. Nux is always incredibly excited to eat, thrilled by the delicacies he's wolfing down, their texture and color and consistency. Eats with his mouth open and often talking the whole time.

Max takes a raw carrot from his plate, remembers a time when they were double the size of this poor specimen. And truly orange, not sickly yellow. Better to have than to starve, though. He crunches into it, ignoring it's metallic taste heavy on his tongue. Nux in the meantime has settled onto one of the lumpy mattresses, barely chewing. The kid is surprisingly silent, but then again Max isn't making an effort to hide his bad mood. 

Looking over, Max notices a collection of objects by the boy's seat. Scraps of metal fashioned into unusual shapes, small car parts, a collection of tools tied up in leather with a rag. A cloth bag sits further away, near the other mattress, with what looks like black clothes visible inside. He can feel Nux watching him, studying his reaction, and when Max looks at him he sees the blatant hope in those crystal eyes.

"No." He turns away, frowns. "Absolutely not."

The boy leaps to his feet, dinner finished, rushing to stand uncomfortably close to Max. Crowding in, unfamiliar with the concept of personal space much like all war boys. It was something Max would definitely have to train into him. "All sergeants stay with their imperators! Gotta be your shield, serve you! Won't do for you to get blued right away, then no one'll-" As he speaks, he presses his chest against Max's arm and the man flinches then pushes back, knocking Nux a few steps away.

"Don't," Max snaps, cutting him off, glaring, and the kid immediately looks at the floor. Good. "Don't touch me." He's not good with touching, not anymore. After an uncomfortable minute of silence, Max realizes the boy is waiting for him to speak, refuses to even move. Submissive. Guilt grips his chest but he pushes it away, refuses to feel bad for setting boundaries. "You're not staying here."

Nux chews on his bottom lip, dares a glance up at Max's face. "Well, lost my place in the barracks 'n all, got no where else."

They stand, both frozen. If he caves, lets the boy stay, it'll look like weakness, softness. Force him out, all trust is lost, people might start looking a little closer at him.

Without a word, Max turns on his heel, goes into his tiny room. Silence will have to be his answer. As he pulls off his jacket, tosses it in a corner, he can hear the boy wolfing down the food Max left untouched before settling back onto his mattress. All right, if Nux wants to play bodyguard, let him. Doesn't mean he's going to stay.


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning, the boy is gone. His things remain, though.

No supply runs coming up and a newly promoted rig imperator is expected to work on his truck, so Max leaves his jacket behind, taking a moment to strap on his leg brace and rub the aching muscle. Mornings are always rough.

There'd been some problems with Max keeping his own clothes at first. He'd refused to shave his head, refused the black pants and belts, and the war boys had harassed him mercilessly for it. When Max started driving his old interceptor, there'd been a lot of fighting. But the Immortan himself put a stop to it. Keeping Max visually separate from the others helped remind him of his time as an object. Reminded everyone of where he came from.

Even now, Max cuts his own hair. The thought of someone touching his head sends his stomach rolling. Too many memories attached. Being stretched out, held down, gagged, sheared like an animal.

Max will have to darken his face when the supply runs begin, for solidarity, but at least it serves a purpose, keeps the glare from the sand down.

Wincing as his leg muscle stretches, Max walks into the main room. A pair of belts sits innocently on the table, new from the look of it. He stares, contemplates. They would be useful today for when he works on the rig, but the thought of putting them on reminds him too much of the chains he once wore. Of his muzzle.

Probably courtesy Nux. Trying to be helpful, taking his position as sergeant seriously. 

Snorting, Max leaves them there. Goes down to the garages.

Nux has already set up the work space, the hood propped open, engine exposed, a creeper at the ready. The boy looks eager and fresh, eyes glowing, excited. It's going to be a long day.

Tune up, new kill switches with his own sequence. Fix the turbine fan, two blades are broken. One of the harpoon guns on the tanker is busted, too. Find the leak in the fuel lines.

As Max inspects the rig and the tanker, he calls out the necessary repairs, knowing the boy is probably illiterate, can't take notes per se, but maybe he'll help remember it. Seems like every inch of the thing needs something done. It'd taken months to repair it after the last imperator had crashed when the supply run was ambushed by buzzards, it seems like with that much work the rig should be in better condition. But he knows, if you want something done right you have to do it yourself.

No breaks. Max doesn't need one, works through any fatigue until a second wind comes. With Nux helping, the job is much quicker. The kid is a talented black thumb, this kind of work comes naturally to him, so Max lets him do some of the repairs without supervision. If he's honest with himself, Nux is better at it, more familiar with semis, but Max isn't anywhere near the point where he'll play second fiddle. It took a long time to build up the kind of respect he now commands from the war boys, he isn't about to relinquish a single dram of power without a struggle.

Max is painfully aware, however, of how anxious Nux is all day. If not assigned a task, he hovers, thankfully respecting the man's personal space but still much too close, using excuses like handing him tools or watching him work to get closer. It tries Max's nerves, but at least the kid is staying submissive, averting his eyes and rounding his back when Max looks at him, raising his shoulders.

As if expecting to be hit. 

It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but he reminds himself this is one of his captors, one of his tormentors.

Night comes quick. The rig is in working order, tomorrow will be dedicated to the tanker. 

"Get us dinner, I'll clean up," Max says, wiping his hands on a rag. Nux lingers, though, fussing with some of the tools. At first, Max tries to ignore him, pretends not to notice, but it's just too obvious. "All right," he sighs. "What?"

Those startling blue eyes meet his. They always unnerve him. "You didn't wear the belts?"

Of course. The belts. From the look on the kid's face, it's like a personal attack, like he was trying to hurt him. Miscalculation on Max's part. He didn't realize how important this would be to the kid. And building trust is very important right now, so later he doesn't question Max before the escape. Damn.

Leaning his hip against the rig, Max chews on the inside of his cheek for a minute, watching the boy. This time Nux doesn't back down, doesn't look away, demanding an answer. "Nope," is all Max can think to say.

Nux shuffles closer and Max lets him, controls himself so he doesn't flinch. "What's wrong with 'em? I can get you different ones. Can get you whatever. Let me."

Such an earnest plea. Let me. Let me serve you, trust me. It makes Max uncomfortable, it's too raw. Struggling to formulate a response, Max opens his mouth, but is interrupted. He's not quite sure if it's a blessing or an irritation. 

"Immortan wants you present," a growling voice announces. One that sounds unnaturally gleeful to be delivering the news. Max looks at the war boy, recognizes his stitched glasgow mouth and mean eyes. Nux's former lancer, now a driver himself. Bad-tempered. "Family dinner."

Nux blinks, astonished, then grins, all anxiety. More like baring his teeth than smiling. "Slit," the kid murmurs.

"Hey, drongo," the bigger boy drawls, voice low and nasty. "Getting comfy?"

Max glances at Nux, confused by the weird undertone to the conversation, realizes the kid has walked away, half-hidden by the nose of the rig. Looks pained, tight around the eyes. Before he can say anything, Max pipes up. "We'll be there."

For a minute Slit looks confused, forgot Max was even there, but he recovers easily. War boys are suckers for social structure, for authority. Pursing his lips, Slit nods and leaves.

The grateful look Nux gives him shocks him enough that he feels uneasy and a heat rises in his cheeks, but he focuses on the impending dinner instead.


	3. Chapter 3

A family dinner is not quite what it sounds like, here in the Citadel.

Rictus and Corpus will be in attendance, while Scabrous is thankfully still holed up in Gas Town. Max has never met the Immortan's third son and has no desire to, he learned enough about him from stories. Both of the remaining sons are, all things considered, not terrible. Corpus is a smart man, leaves Max alone and often has insightful comments during war councils. Rictus is, well, he is what he is. He's a hulking slab of muscle and not much else. At least they're tolerable. The imperators, though, they always cause a problem. They're worse than the war boys could ever be, more sly and cruel and suspicious, resentful of Max's status, angry that their god chose him above everyone else, elevated him from object to head of the fleet. Conveniently ignoring the work Max has put in, the contributions he's made, the fact that he's clearly a superior driver. Their sergeants are even worse, dim-witted security goons only good for following orders. Sergeants are hand-picked by Corpus, Max wonders what it means that he chose a war boy with an actual head on his shoulders to be his second in command.

This dinner, though, this is different.

When Max walks into the dining hall, Nux close behind, first thing he notices is his Sisters. They're draped heavily in gauze and muslin, heads bowed, all looking pale and upset. They're chained, wrists and ankles bound with long heavy chains to their chairs, enough slack left for eating and not much else. Angharad risks a glance up and her eyes widen when she sees him, mouth tightening.

The hairs on the back of Max's neck stand up and he struggles to keep from asking, does he know?

At the other end of the long table, Rictus, Corpus, and Joe's personal imperator Deimos are seated and waiting, eyeing Max. Pak, sergeant to Deimos, stands quietly behind his chair, head bowed.

Plenty of empty chairs remain, but one catches his eye. At the head of the table, surrounded by the Wives.

Max takes a seat next to Corpus, staring at his rusty dented plate, body tense. It feels like every muscle in his body is made of lead, heavy and dead and insensate. He wants to shout. He wants to kill them all. He's a dead man and they're still forcing him through this farce.

Behind him, Nux moves in close, sensing the mood and the anxiety in his boss, booted feet making too much noise for the horrible maddening atmosphere. Nux runs hot, a side effect of his encroaching death, and Max can feel the body heat radiating off of him, can sense the proximity. It's like an electric shock when he feels the boy's hand slide against his shoulder blade, hidden from view from the others by the back of the chair. Max is strangely grateful though, it feels as if the jolt he gets from the contact releases him, frees his body from the slugginess of fear. Max turns his head a fraction of an inch, glances at his boy from the side of his eye, knows Nux will understand it for the thanks it is.

Two heavy-muscled war boys, dull with angry eyes, file into the room, followed closely by their wheezing, diseased deity himself. His arms are supported by two more enormous war boys, guiding his unsteady steps to the table. Settling in, Joe waves his assistants away, letting his hand graze Dag's shoulder before it rests on the table. Max sees her face twist, the way she twitches, has to fist his hands to keep from screaming.

"My family," the Immortan huffs, entirely too pleased with himself. Even his voice is slimy. "It is good for us to be together."

Max risks a glance at the three men beside him, trying to gauge the situation from their impassive faces. There's no help there, instead Deimos turns his eyes, meets his stare, jaw twitching. A nasty shiver runs down Max's shoulders and arms and he turns away.

The Immortan waves imperiously and three war pups rush in, crouching like beaten animals, warped metal bowls clutched in their arms. They scoop the contents onto each plate, meat, an incredibly rare delicacy in this quantity. Impossible not to notice the lack of a plate in front of Joe, allowing him to keep his mask on. He wants to watch, wants to be fawned over and thanked for this bounty.

One meat Max recognizes as something akin to beef, remembers that particular texture and redness from before. The other two leave him suspicious. Pig, possibly, not pale enough for chicken. But in such astonishing quantity. He thinks on the Wretched, scrabbling in the dust and waste below, of their sheer numbers, how disposable they are, how easily it would be to make one or two disappear, and feels bile climb in his throat.

As the servers scamper off, Rictus begins eating immediately with a cheerful "thanks, da!" Max and Deimos know better, know their roles, and form the sign of the V8, bowing their heads. With a hum, Joe waves his hand, clearly pleased with their display but playing the benevolent ruler. Deimos begins eating with gusto, angrily stabbing and chewing mechanically. Max can see Capable and Dag from where he is seated without having to turn his head, knows better than to look directly at them, sees the way they pick at it, and silently wills them to eat for their health. It's okay, he thinks, you're forgiven, please be strong.

For himself, though, no such benediction. No one to forgive him. And no excuses. Inhaling deeply, trying to calm his stomach, he begins with the beef.

They eat in awkward silence as Joe sits, watching, arms crossed over his chest. The horrible wheeze and hiss of his air machine. The clink of utensils on plates and against teeth. The sounds of sloppy chewing, of swallowing, of digestion. The heaviness of the food will be miserable later, make everyone sick, but no one dares to eat less than they're given for fear of seeming ungrateful.

"Not so long ago, was it, Max?" Joe sings. "I believe the last family dinner we had-" silently Max begs him to be silent, to not say it "-you were at my feet, were you not?"

"Muzzled," Deimos agrees eagerly. He always did love the muzzle. Loved putting it on Max, loved dragging him around by it. Lost the tip of a finger when it got too close to his mouth and Max bit it right off.

Max stares at his plate, still half full, and almost throws up right onto it. He knows what comes next. Knows what this is about. Joe doesn't know the escape plan, that's something to be thankful for, and he's willing to endure this humiliation as if in exchange. But it's hard. So hard.

"Come here."

Sliding his chair back, Max rises to his feet, eyes down, face hard. With stiff legs he approaches the Immortan, falls heavily to his knees by the man's side. Thick, filthy fingers slip through his hair, petting him. Max struggles to breathe through his nose, dangerously close to hyperventilating. They're watching him, everyone has their eyes on him, their stares like a touch.

The rest of the night is a blur. Max remembers a speech about his promotion and then being released back to his seat, no worse for the wear, at least not physically. He remembers giving Nux the rest of his dinner, a faux pas no one comments on because they know he's lost his appetite. He remembers another speech, one announcing Dag's pregnancy, remembers a discussion about the next supply run and the fitness of the rig for it, remembers Nux responding on his behalf in an awed hushed voice, muffled from his head being bowed. He remembers the dismissal and the smug, possessive look Joe gives him as they leave. He remembers in the hall a hand on his neck, heavy, squeezing hard, the sound of Deimos laughing in his ear.

Somehow he makes it home. To safety.

Max curls up on his screeching bed, still fully clothed, eyes distant. He's not here. He doesn't know where he is, but it's silent and still and deep inside of himself. There's a squeal as the bed dips behind him but he's so far away that he doesn't even move, his body a stone, cold and solid. Boney hands touch his arm, shake him a little, but he doesn't feel it. Words in his ear, but he doesn't hear.

Carefully, confused, Nux removes the man's leg brace and his boots, covers him with his thick scratchy blanket. He's unaware of the history here, knew Max was a bloodbag but is not privy to the rest, is frightened by the way his boss is nothing more than a living corpse right now. There's nothing he can do, either, except make him comfortable, try to take care of the physical. Sitting at the top of the bed, he pulls the man's head into his lap and for a moment Max jerks away, shuddering, remembering other times, other laps, but the boy is insistent, stroking his hair, murmuring.

It's a long, long time before Max falls asleep, but Nux doesn't mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Slight movement under his head, the bed springs give a soft squeal, and Max is awake. His heart roars as his lungs freeze and he jerks away, squirming until he falls off of the bed, landing painfully on his tailbone. Panting, whining, he snarls as a face peeks over the edge. The moment stretches out in suspense as he tries to determine how this person will hurt him. And then he understands the face belongs to Nux, he understands that he is an imperator and no longer an animal, no longer a thing but a person. Or as close to a person as he can get here. 

Tension seeps out of him slowly and he deflates, laying back on the hard stone floor, shutting his eyes. He's so tired. Worse than usual. Cracking one eye open, he looks for Nux, but the boy is gone. A small comfort to what little dignity he has. He vaguely remembers Nux sitting in bed with him, remembers falling asleep that way. Had the kid been sitting, watching over him, this entire time?

It feels late and Max knows he should get up, should go to the garage. The trailer needs work, the turrets were looking pretty worn, the ammo needs restocked and the guns cleaned. But the thought of leaving his rooms, or worse, of seeing someone that had been present at dinner, is too horrible to contemplate. It drains the strength from him. Drains the hope he once started to feel.

Dozing on the floor, Max hears heavy footfalls and struggles to sit up, but his legs and arms feel so far away, disconnected from his body. Leaning against the bed, he can see Nux standing at the table, a plate of food in his hands, staring at the belts Max had left there. The boy runs a hand over his scalp, brows knitted together, before finally putting the plate down and settling down on his mattress, stretching out. 

Max isn't hungry but feels compelled to eat. He knows Nux tried to help him last night and after the belt situation he needs to show some appreciation. Win the kid over. But he's so exhausted. It just seems like so much work. Much easier to go back to sleep. Maybe never wake up again. Just take one of those pieces of scrap metal by Nux's bed and slit his wrists, lay down and never get up again.

Max tries to remind himself, he's done good. He's helped people. By being an imperator he's in a position to help even more.

Taking a fortifying breath, Max struggles to his feet and limps out of his bedroom, wondering when his leg brace came off. The plate has just a couple of raw veg, Max has a feeling his sergeant must have grabbed what he could find without asking one of the cooks. He can feel Nux's eyes on him, refuses to look over and see the hope there. Instead, Max just grabs what looks like a dehydrated radish and pops it into his mouth, enjoying the mild spiciness.

When Max finishes off the plate, he glances at his sergeant, intending to thank him, but the boy is asleep. Indecisive, struggling to think clearly, Max stares at him, fingers the belts. They got so much accomplished yesterday, surely one day off won't hurt. They'll still be on schedule and can always go down to the garage in the evening. Max hobbles over to his bed, lays down, rubs the knot out of his thigh until he can fall asleep.

A gentle hand on his cheek rouses Max from a dreamless sleep. Blinking rapidly, he tries to focus on Nux's face, feels warm and muzzy. He never was one to indulge in naps, it's not exactly conducive to survival. But he has a bodyguard. Someone that is willing to watch over him all night.

"Missed dinner. Did some work on the tanker, what you told last time. Not all, some. Wanna peep?" Nux's soft gravel voice brings Max to the present more fully, grounds him. The kid is close, forgetting to give Max space, but the man is so comfortable and sleepy that he just reaches over and rubs the boy's smooth scalp the way he might pet a dog.

"Sure," he replies. Working on the war rig sounds like an excellent idea, sounds restful.

Nux scampers off the other room, letting Max get up in solitude, but not before the man notices how surprisingly pink Nux's cheeks are with a blush. Interesting.

By the time he's ready to go, most of the sleepiness has worn off. He's not refreshed, exactly, but he feels somewhat peaceful. He can forget yesterday.

By the time Nux is ready to go, tools neatly placed in their spots on his work belt, Max has taken one of the belts from the table and slid it around his waist. It feels odd, but he thinks he could get used to it. And the boy's gratitude is readily apparent on his face. Useful.


	5. Chapter 5

Nux had gone down to the storage basements and refilled all the ammo boxes in the cab and turrets, even managed to take apart one of the harpoon guns, clean it, put it back together. Decent work for one person. There's plenty more to do, though, the swing arms need repaired, cleaned, oiled, and the other harpoon gun, the one in the back, needs some serious work. A couple of the circular saw blades that curve along the side of the tanker are missing some teeth, but it's not critical. 

Max nods, hums approvingly, as they crouch in the rear turret. This saves him having to go make the requisitions himself. Apparently Nux understands just how much Max hates speaking to the other residents of the Citadel. It's strange, having someone attend to his needs, pay attention to his preferences, try to help him. It's been one long struggle after another, especially here in the Citadel, and especially with these vicious little war boys.

"All right," Max murmurs, cuffing him gently on the back of his head, letting his hand linger longer this time. Nux is all grins from the attention, blushing a little again, and Max is pleased, tells himself he has another weapon in his arsenal against the kid. The more trust, the tighter the bond, the easier it will to trick the boy when it's time to escape. He ignores the twinge in his stomach at the thought, chalks it up to heavy meat the other day.

Max begins dismantling the harpoon gun, suspecting the firing pin is what's causing the problem. The trigger feels a bit iffy, though, so he'll have to look at that too. In the meantime, Nux is hanging off of one of the swiveling arms, checking out the joints and greasing them up. They work quietly, happily, unexpectedly easy with each other. Max can hear nearby people going past in the halls, loud, all jackboots and cruel laughter and shouting. The noise is distant enough that it doesn't set Max's teeth on edge the way it would have normally, he feels safe enough in his little metal cave.

"Need a new grab hook and cable, need anything?"

Max glances down at Nux, now on the ground. "Firing pin. And a spring. They'll know the kind."

Time passes. Max leaves the harpoon gun, gets out on the other swivel arm and cleans it up, glad it doesn't need repaired. The tanker itself, the valves and hoses, the seals, the manhole, they already were repaired after the crash, but Max runs through them, just a quick check to make sure everything's on the up and up. Hitches look good, pins look rusty but are solid. He greases the hinges to the hidden door in the cab for lack of anything better to do.

Max stretches, scratches his stomach, a little disappointed the kid hasn't come back yet. It has to be late, deep night, hardly anyone has been around the garages for ages. He'll have to track the parts down in the morning, he's too tired, his back and leg too sore, to try to figure out extra work.

He's almost to his rooms when a pup catches up, pants a size too big, dragging behind him, slowing him down.

"Got your sergeant! Organic Mechanic's got him!"

Max is already headed to the hospital before the little one finishes his sentence, doesn't bother slowing down to let the pup keep up. There's a weird tightness in his chest and he berates himself for letting the kid be the one always running errands. What the hell could have happened, anyway, all Nux had to do was go to the supply basements. Stupid war boy.

Organic intercepts Max at the door, grinning. "Figured you didn't know, guess you got the message." The murderous look Max gives him wipes his slick grin off of his face and he clears his throat. "Ah, kid just got jumped, nothing major, busted rib, broken arm." The sweaty doctor turns and starts walking back into the hospital, waves over his shoulder for Max to follow.

It's deeply unpleasant being here, seeing the bloodbags hanging from the ceiling. His skin crawls and he can practically feel the cattle prod, the bars, the needle in his neck. Not as bad as it used to be, though, his year in the vault makes stolen blood seem easy in the grand scheme. In the back of his mind, he compartmentalizes, turns away mentally from the weak dying prisoners. He has other things to focus on. Nux. The kid looks dead already, laying stretched out on the floor on a pile of blankets, paler than ever before, chest wrapped in filthy rags, left arm splinted with some kind of homemade metal gauntlet. Max chokes on his own breath, startled by how upsetting the sight is, how deeply it effects him. He hesitates, eyes glued to that skinny chest to make sure it's still rising and falling, and Organic arches an eyebrow but wisely keeps his mouth shut.

"Could use some blood," the doctor drawls, smiling. "All my bloodbags are tapped out, can't use 'em without risking 'em dying. You... you, uh, used to donate, yeah?"

The tattoo on Max's back itches and he grits his teeth. Everyone here loves to remind him of just how low he truly is, how little he matters. No promotion will ever take away his pathetic shameful past. "Hook him up."

As the Organic Mechanic goes to get the equipment, Max settles on the floor by Nux's head, his back pressed against the cool stone wall. As the doctor pierces his arm, misses on the first try but hits a nice vein on the second, Max lets his head roll on his neck, rest on one shoulder, studying his sergeant's face. He supposes this could work to his benefit, too, make the kid especially grateful, but as quickly as the thought intrudes he pushes it away.

When the Organic leaves, blood flowing easily, Max rests his hand on the kid's head, scratches gently behind his ear. He feels better here, being in contact with Nux. And there's a weird symmetry with this morning that pleases him, makes him feel like they might be even now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to be super realistic with the vehicles and weapons (the research is surprisingly fun), if you see an error please let me know!


	6. Chapter 6

The blood helps. Back when he'd been just a bloodbag, they'd called him feral, said his blood was high octane. Holds true even now, it doesn't take long for Nux to come to.

Max yanks the needle out of his boy's arm, then his own, setting the tubing carefully aside. "How you feel?"

"Hurts," Nux whimpers, holding his broken forearm to his body. Organic had said it looked like more of a crack than a true break, which was lucky, means less healing to do. On the downside, it also means the doctor isn't about to waste any of his pain relievers on something so minor. The boy is also covered in scabbed scrapes and horrible dark bruises, compounding his agony.

Silence spins out, punctuated by Nux's heavy wet panting. Max winces in sympathy, rubs the boy's shoulder.

"Who did it?" Max finally asks when he feels a little tension ebb out of the kid's body.

Nux reacts immediately, curls up a little tighter, turning his face towards the floor, away from Max. "Dunno," he mutters.

Max wants to press the issue, wants to demand answers, confirm his suspicion, but more than that he wants out of the hospital. Feels the weight of his own history pressing on him with every passing minute, with every miserable moan from the bloodbags. Max gets to his feet before bending down over the boy's still form.

"Let's go."

Nux looks up at him and again it's as if the sun is shining behind those cerulean eyes, bright and joyous and blinding. Max has to look away, graceless, awkward.

Grabbing Nux's unbroken arm, Max slings it over his shoulder, sliding his hand up under the kid's other arm. Carefully, at a snail's pace, he helps him get to his feet. Nux is still pretty wobbly, so Max keeps him close, snakes his arm around that pale skinny waist and practically hauls him out the door in his eagerness to get out.

They start to hobble up to the higher reaches of the Citadel. It takes a damn long time but Max doesn't want to rush his sergeant, uses the time to try to fight his own guilt. This was quite possibly his fault. 

The entire culture in the Citadel is built on casual cruelty, on aggression and testosterone, plus Max has more than a couple enemies that would love to see him fail. But more than anyone, he suspects Deimos.

In the bad year, Deimos had been one of the worst parts. He is a sadist, utterly perverse. And smart. He knew better than to torment the Wives, knew Joe would have his head if a single bruise showed up on their perfect skin. But Max, well, Max wasn't breeding stock, he was an animal, he was a wild beast that needed tamed. Joe couldn't administer the more physical aspects of Max's punishments, not with his failing health, so he would call on the imperator with a taste for blood. And how Deimos loved that blood. He tortured Max under the Immortan's guidance, ate up his pain and drank his misery.

And the times Joe wasn't there, when Max wasn't supposed to be punished, it just meant Deimos had to be more creative so no one else would know.

The beating Nux endured isn't necessarily the man's style, he's more subtle, more refined than that. But to get to Max? And to satisfy his need for pain? Possible. Likely, even. The resentment Deimos harbors towards Max's promotion, towards the fact that he left the vault and is off limits now, makes it likely.

As they near home, Max clears his throat. "Don't go anywhere alone." He turns his head, expects to meet the boy's curious stare, but instead Nux is looking at the floor. "I..." The words are not exactly hard to say, but he finds himself a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

The arm around his neck twitches and Nux's slender fingers brush his neck. A drawn-out pause and then a miserable voice, words tight and breathy. "You too. Promise. Promise you won't go out alone." He sounds almost desperate, nervous. 

When they finally make it home, they're both exhausted. Nux tries to draw away when they enter the room, ready to lay down on his mattress, but Max keep hauling him to the bedroom. A sharp inhale, back straightening despite the pain, but Nux lets himself be dragged to the small dark room. Gently, cautious, Max lowers the kid to the mattress.

"Easier to get up," Max explains. As he turns to go, the boy grabs a fistful of his shirt. Max stops, looks down at Nux's hand then looks up at his blushing face, makes a questioning noise in his throat. Instead of replying, Nux just lets go, busying himself by kicking his boots off. Max considers helping by untying the laces but honestly he's had enough of awkward situations for the day.

Instead, he goes to the other mattress, the unused one, flops back onto it with a sigh. Considering how much he's slept recently, he shouldn't be that tired, but he falls asleep almost immediately.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Max is pleased to see Nux is still asleep. Dragging the poor kid down to the supply basements and then the garage just seems ridiculous. And a good way to make his injuries worse.

Down to the kitchens, first, though. As a driver he'd been here often enough, used to grab his meals and take them somewhere hidden instead of the dining halls. He grabs as much as he dares, eyed hard by the boys manning the fires and bins. No one dares start anything though, not yet with the promotion fresh.

Max leaves the plate by the bed, close enough that the kid can reach without moving too much, then heads back out.

Supply basements. Always bustling with activity, war boys rushing in and out, yelling to be heard, the boys and pups manning the maze-like rooms shouting back, the clank and rattle and crash of clumsy kids handling metal.

Max pushes to the front and the sea of pale bodies parts readily for him even as they snarl and hiss and snap.

One war boy, though, pushes back.

Startled, Max quickly puffs up, rising to his full height, eyebrows furrowed. He recognizes the kid, Slit, the one Nux seemed so nervous about. His former lancer. The shouting dies down to a murmur as word of the showdown spreads. As Max meets Slit's stare, the boy's lip curled in derision and anger, he realizes that it wasn't necessarily just his own enemies that could have attacked Nux. His sergeant apparently has troubles of his own following him.

The thought of this barking, snarling dimwit laying a hand on Nux, of him lunging from the shadows like a coward and beating and kicking him until he broke bone, fills Max with fury. He can see it in his mind, can absolutely picture in vivid clarity his boy curling fetal in agony on the ground as Slit's heavy black boots pound a tempo into his flesh.

Livid with anger, Max gives no warning, he simply swings at the war boy with all of his might, throwing his weight behind it. It connects with the boy's cheekbone and he feels a satisfying crunch under his knuckles.

Slit howls, staggers back against the bodies crowded around them, but before he can retaliate Max is on him, grabbing him around the neck and dragging him to his knees in a headlock.

"Quiet!" he yells, and Slit manages to contain himself, stops struggling, grunting low in the back of his throat, undoubtedly in excruciating pain. Lowering his voice, pitching it until only Slit can hear even with the noise he's making, Max leans closer to the boy's head, pressing his cheek against him. "If you touch Nux, ever, I will slice you open. Top to bottom. Gut you."

Going utterly still, Slit doesn't acknowledge the threat, so Max releases him.

For a minute, Slit stares at him, eyes dark and ugly and full of rage, but he quickly storms off, most likely to the Organic Mechanic.

Max's knuckles are bruised, ache like hell. Around him, there's a general hush and war boys move out of his way even faster. Good. He's still fuming, adrenaline racing, feels like he could take them all on if he had to so it's for the best that they stay back.

Firing pin and spring for the harpoon gun and grab hook and cable for the swing arm. Max heads up to his garage and the war rig.

He manages to get through most of the repairs by the time word of the fight reaches the wrong ears. Seated on the floor of the turret, putting the firing mechanism back together, Max hears footsteps and goes still. 

"Max..." a low voice calls out, singsong, mocking. "Max."

His heart revs up and an unpleasant taste floods his mouth. He switches his grip on the screwdriver, holding it like a weapon.

"I think we need to have a talk," Deimos says, and his voice is traveling as if he's walking around the rig. Hopefully he hasn't seen Max in the turret yet. He remembers their talks, their private talks, with disturbing clarity.

After a beat, the imperator's footsteps pick up the pace and fade from the room, and Max lets out the breath he's holding. Only to leap to his feet, slamming his head into the metal roof. Nux. The next logical place Deimos would look for him is in his rooms.

Rubbing his head, eyes watering, Max races for his rooms, screwdriver still clutched firmly in his sweaty hand. He berates himself, he can't do anything without screwing it up, putting others in danger. He hates being responsible for others, it always ends disastrously, everyone he care for dies.

Max knows how Deimos operates, knows he has plenty of time before any truly soul-shattering injuries. The imperator likes to start small, little hurts building up to bigger agony.

For a moment he thinks the rooms are empty and Max's heart stutters, but then he realizes the boy is on the bed, watching him with an unreadable expression. The relief that fills Max, makes his limbs feel rubbery and limp, is unexpectedly powerful. Legs numb, he drops the screwdriver on the table as he goes to the bedside. Nux manages to sit up with some difficulty, and Max grabs his upper arms, squeezing those whipcord muscles, trying not to shake him.

Before Max can speak, Nux says, "I said not to go out alone." His voice is flat.

"Are you okay?" Max asks, ignoring the boy's admonishment. He scans Nux, taking in the blossoming bruises now turning deep violets and yellows, the scrapes and cuts crusted in old blood, sees nothing new. 

Nux bites his scarred lip, eyes sliding down to stare at the bare mattress. "Bastard!" he hisses abruptly, and instead of the strange monotone his voice is now heavy with emotion. He grabs Max's shirt with his good arm, bunching it up in his fist. "Told you! Told you not to go alone! That crazy bitzer from before came by, said real awful stuff, said he hurt you-"

"I'm all right," Max murmurs, trying to soothe the kid. Nux is worked up, panicked, he'd thought Max was dead and is suffering through the dread he'd been flooded with. "It's fine. I'm fine."

It doesn't take long for Nux to settle down, shoulders dropping, hand releasing the shirt. Sighing, Max sits down on the edge of the bed, scrubs his face with one hand.

"Is he the one that attacked you?" Max asks. He doesn't expect an answer. Instead, the bed springs squeal as Nux shifts, and the boy presses his forehead against Max's shoulder, giving him a little jolt of surprise.

"Promise," Nux begs. "Promise you won't... You won't go alone." His hand slips around Max's arm, rubbing his fingertips subtly against the texture of the shirt fabric. "And don't leave me alone, neither."

Stiff, awkward, Max pats the kid's hand with his own. "All right."


	8. Chapter 8

The war rig is on hold. It's mostly fixed up, he just needs to stock it with weapons in the cab really, but he won't deal with it until Nux is able to walk easier. It's hard to move much with his broken rib, could lead to puncturing an organ. Better to not risk it.

But word comes down the pipeline. Supply run in three weeks. Not long enough for his sergeant is truly heal. In the old times, if Nux was properly eating every day, it would still take at least forty to fifty days to heal. But here, eating bugs and lizards, shriveled vegetables, drinking a modicum sticky milk. Could be months of heal time.

It's much worse, though, when Max is called to the hunt.

Buzzards are getting brave, getting closer to the Citadel, closer to Fury Road, attacking every patrol they can. With so many war boys getting knocked around and even dying in the attacks, it's every man on the deck. Still, paranoia gives Max the feeling of subtle hands pulling strings. They're going in the evening, hoping to surprise the buzzards. Scouts found a small camp, so it was going to be a massacre, a warning for others to stay away. Max hates these kinds of raids, hates when the goal is strictly shedding blood. At least he'll be given his old Interceptor to drive, a crumb of a consolation.

Max tries to sleep in but tosses and turns on his mattress, can hear the quiet squeak of bed springs as Nux does the same. They're both anxious, nervous about being separated. Safety is easier when there's someone to watch your back, and the boy is in no condition to be defending himself. Not from Slit, and not from Deimos. Giving up, knowing he'll be exhausted in the early morning when he gets back, Max gets up, starts to dress. Leg brace, boots. He walks into the bedroom, carefully avoiding looking at Nux. In the past few days, it's been hard to tell if he's just manipulating the boy or... Or if there's something else. Max tells himself he's just working on winning him over, making him a useful and oblivious ally. But it doesn't ring wholly true.

Kneeling, Max pulls a battered, rusty box from under the bed. He pulls out his handgun, a Taurus, checking it over, loaded and safety off, then grabs a couple of magazines. Nux is laying perfectly still, watching, the only indicator of his uneasiness the way he's biting the inside of his cheek. Max sets the gun down by the kid's feet and kneels back down to pull his jacket and tactical vest out.

The silence in the room is physical, ponderous, it's pulling down on Max like stones tied to his neck. As he stands, pulls his leather jacket on, he murmurs over his shoulder, "there's a Luger in the box. Two clips."

A quiet noise tells Max the boy opened his mouth, but no words follow. Turning, Max studies his face, tries to figure out what is going on, why he's so worried about leaving this kid alone. He should hate him on principle, should despise all war boys for what they've done, for the way they treated him, the horrors he's endured. And continues to endure.

"Wish I was going," Nux finally says, but his tone suggests this isn't what he wanted to say, originally. "Or... You weren't going." Nux shrugs, curling his toes as his cheeks flush. "Come back in one piece, yeah?"

Max nods, feels his own neck getting warm with embarrassment. It hadn't been overly sappy, but somehow the sentimentality behind the kid's words makes him self-conscious. "Don't fall back asleep. Keep the pistol next to you." Without thinking, he rubs the kid's shaved head, patting it, silently praying to whomever will listen to keep them both safe.

Time passes. Blood is shed. Cars explode. People die. The darkness is painted red and black and is filled with screams. All Max knows is the car, concentrates on driving, removes himself entirely until he is part of the machine himself. His lancer, someone he doesn't know, calls for particular maneuvers, and Max focuses, ignores the reason why, ignores that he is complicit in these murders. He is steel and fuel and rubber. He is empty.

They come back. Cheering, laughing, shouting. Noise, endless noise. His lancer gone, driving one of the cars they've commandeered. He leaves the cleaning and care of the Interceptor to a group of war pups. He heads home.

It's late but sure enough Nux is awake. He's sitting on the bed, working one of the pieces of scrap metal he brought with a pair of needle-nose pliers, trying to make a particular shape. Max pauses in the doorway, watches him, the way he squints and his mouth twists up as he works. Quick as a flash, however, the Luger is pointed at his shadowy form. Good boy.

Max raises his arms, hands out, comes into the main room. He almost staggers, wonders at just how wiped out he is, if it's the lack of sleep or the exhaustion of his soul. Supply runs promise less bloodshed, less death, but he'll never be truly free of these skirmishes.

Nux stares as if shocked to see him, jumps to his feet as quickly as he can without aggravating his ribs, rushing over. "You're hurt," he says quietly, pushing against him, invading his space again. This time, Max doesn't flinch, barely even notices it.

Confused, Max touches his head where the kid is staring, sucks a breath in at the pain when he touches a burn. He remembers fire, remembers heat, an explosion close to the open window. Must have been closer than he originally thought. Wonders if his lancer was hurt.

Home again. As if waking up, rousing from a dream, Max finds himself becoming more aware of his surroundings, details starting to filter in. Nux grabs the neck of the vest and tugs on it one-handed, forcing Max to shrug until it slides off of him. He takes his jacket off while the kid sets the vest down on the table.

"Gun," Nux demands, holding his hand out. "Gotta clean it. Saw the state the Luger was in, real pitiful."

Max feels the corner of his mouth twitch, almost the hint of a smile. "Can't clean it one-handed."

"Cleaned the Luger just fine, real shiny now. Hand it over."

Max pulls the Taurus out, takes the barrel off to make it easier for Nux. Cradling the disassembled gun in his splinted arm, stooping to grab a small bag from beside his bed, Nux settles onto the bed and pulls out a rag, some gun oil, a bore brush. The ritual is soothing to watch. Max goes into the bedroom, wondering in the back of his mind what the hell he's doing, but he reminds himself that laying on the floor is playing havoc with his leg and his back. Max sits, takes off his leg brace and boots, and lays down on the bed, cushioning his head with his arms so he can watch Nux clean the handgun. The boy only hesitates for a second before continuing on, and it doesn't take much longer than that for Max to drift off.


	9. Chapter 9

During the night, Max wakes to feel warmth against his back. He's laying on his side, blanket pulled up tight under his chin, but he can feel the feverish body heat of the boy pressed tight against him, those long legs bent up under his. It reminds him of the bunkers, how cold it would get, how everyone would push their pallets together for warmth. He was usually shunned, mostly ignored but occasionally outright attacked, but on cold desert nights they would all huddle together, didn't matter who. There's comfort in contact, but he feels strangely dizzy now. Turning as gently as possible onto his back, Max looks at his sergeant's sleeping face in the low light from the hall, features slack and easy, childlike, the tip of his nose darkened to look like a skull, somehow precious.

Max frowns, turns his face away, heart racing, stomach clenching. Tries to go back to sleep.

Voices in the other room wake him. He's cold and the bed is empty. Jerking up, Max grabs the Taurus from the floor where Nux had set it down, hobbles towards the doorway but the timbre of the speakers stops him.

It's the lancer, Slit, and Nux, talking quietly. Voices soft and strangely intimate. 

"Keep it down or I'll pip the other eye, give you matching," Nux snaps.

Slit's voice is so soft, so private, that Max doesn't catch what he says. But he knows the sound of it. Cajoling, coaxing, with force behind the words, punctuating the consonants with the slightest threat.

Abruptly Nux hisses, feet shuffle on the ground, and Max ducks into the room, finger brushing the trigger.

Slit has a hand around Nux's upper arm, the injured one, looks like he's trying to pull him out of the room, but Max's boy has his feet planted, unmoving despite the pain on his face. They don't notice Max right away. The lancer leans in fast, tucks his face in against Nux's and suddenly Nux howls.

"Enough!" Max growls, striding towards the two as he tucks the gun in his waistband. Slit lets go of the taller boy immediately, takes a step back. One of his eye sockets is swollen, the one above the cheekbone Max broke, the whites of the eye red with burst blood vessels. Good, Max thinks savagely.

He glances at Nux, sees blood on the side of his face, trickling down his neck, and his hackles stand up. He reaches out to grab Slit but the muscled boy ducks and skitters back, snarling, a spot of blood on his mouth.

"I told you-" Max begins, but Slit is already taking off down the hall, pushing past a group of younger war boys, disappearing around a bend.

Max turns to ask if the boy is okay, but Nux has already moved to his old mattress, rummaging through his bag of clothes until he finds a ratty old scarf to press against the wound. When he pulls it away to look at how much blood there is, Max can see the bite, small and already clotting.

"He's just fritzed I got promoted," Nux murmurs. "Blows his gasket easy, bad temper."

"He wanted you to go with him."

Nux tosses the scarf onto the mattress, shrugs. He lifts his head, stares at Max, eyes wide and glassy. "We should work on the rig," he says, trying to change the subject.

Irritated, Max walks closer to the boy, meeting his stare dead-on. "I don't want you to go with him." He wants to understand what's between Nux and Slit, it bothers him how irrationally angry he is about the confrontation. He wants to track Slit down and slice his throat open to match his mouth.

"I..." Nux blinks, looks nervous, a little frightened. Maybe he expects Max's anger to swing to him, turn physical. "I don't wanna go with him. I'm your sergeant now."

The phrase. Max has been thinking of this war boy as his for a few days now, but to hear it out loud, even phrased in such an innocent way. His sergeant. Max clears his throat. "I told him to stay away. If he bothers you again, tell me."

Nux smiles tentatively. "He's scared of you, I'm not worried. 'Sides, I can handle him now I got that Luger." He places his hand on Max's arm, squeezes affectionately, blushing again.

It hits Max hard, the realization. The boy has... something, a crush. On him.

Max's heart leaps and races, his guts twist, but he pushes it away again. Tries to think clearly. His mouth is so dry. He struggles to put his brain in order. He can use this. He can use the boy's feelings to his advantage, make him so loyal he'll never question Max again. Maybe, maybe he can even convince him to help, free him from this horrible place, free him from his brainwashing. Maybe he can come along with Max and the Sisters, he can help, they can stay together-

Getting carried away. Doesn't matter how strongly he wants it, how it makes his chest feel too tight and his throat full of his heart, he needs to stop thinking that way right now. This boy is a tool. And unfortunately he belongs to the Immortan.

Still, a tool is a tool and should be used.

Steeling himself, trying to quell the anxiety that surges through him, Max cups the boy's jaw, rubbing his thumb on the long thin scar there. Nux's eyes widen, his blush deepens to a red, he lowers his head in submission. Licks his lips. 

Max stares at that mouth, those vertical scars, now slightly damp. Thinks about kissing that mouth. Ignores the fluttering in his stomach. It's been so long since he's been touched intimately, and much much longer than that since it was consensual. He's not entirely sure he'll be able to go through with this. The thought of being naked, of being touched, makes him uncomfortable. But he wants it, he suddenly is aching with a need he thought he'd killed.

And if that need serves his purpose, if it facilitates his escape, so much the better.

And the other feelings, the way he can barely catch his breath and his blood is racing through him and his skin feels too hot, they serve no purpose and he will obliterate them until there's not a trace of... whatever this is.

Exhaling hard, Max slides his hand around to cup the war boy's head, pulls him down slightly, and Nux doesn't resist, goes willingly. Testing the waters, Max lets his lips brush his boy's, can feel Nux's neck tensing, the hand on his arm tightening.

Max presses closer, their mouths crash together and he shudders. Nux's lips part slightly, and he takes advantage, kissing deeper, harder, the tip of his tongue swiping along the strange texture of his bottom lip. Nux whines into his mouth, panting. Max grabs the boy's hip, massaging it, pulling his body closer until they're flush against each other.

He can feel the boy's erection on his thigh and Nux starts to move, shifting his hips, pressing harder. A moan escapes Max, startles him even as he makes it, he tells himself it was on purpose and calculated. He needs to get a grip, needs to clear his head and think strategically.

Except then Nux is reaching between them, his fingers brushing then squeezing Max's own dick, and it's like ice water down his back.

Because he remembers other hands on him. He remembers the quiet wheeze of the respirator and the smell of sweat and that powdery clay, remembers the feel of his muzzle, remembers old thick fingers kneading his flesh. For all his efforts to lock the memories away, they come crashing back.

Taking a step back, Max lets go of the boy, unable to breathe for a moment. Nux stares at him, confused, mouth swollen and wet, cheeks and chest pink. He looks good, looks edible, but Max just turns around and goes into his bedroom. He needs a moment. Alone. Which is ridiculous, because of course the boy is going to follow him, thinks they're just moving on to the next step.

Max presses a hand against the wall, turned away from his sergeant, his boy, closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe. That's all he wants right now, just how to breathe.

"Mm-" Nux murmurs, "Max?"

Max almost laughs when he realizes this is the first time the kid has said his name. Nothing makes sense, it's all so confusing, what was he thinking.

The boy touches his back, fingertips against his spine, a question made physical, and makes a quiet noise. A begging noise.

If he doesn't respond, it'll ruin this, he knows that. Nux will be hurt, devastated, all trust will be lost. And... And he wants it, he does want it just as badly.


	10. Chapter 10

Max turns, reaches out. His hands brush pale skin, slide along the kid's ribs, grasp his sides and pulls him closer. Nux presses his good forearm against the wall by Max's head and leans down, kissing him with renewed intensity. It takes a minute to fight past the anxiety, the feeling of being caged in and trapped, and then Nux is kissing and biting his neck, licking his ear, Max can hear his breath all hot and fast, and his body responds.

Even as Max is struggling to catch up mentally, Nux grinds his hips against Max's, rasping a moan, but he winces and Max remembers his broken rib.

"Stop," he pants, "stop. You'll hurt yourself worse."

Pursing his lips, Nux backs up slightly, prodding his tender side without realizing it. "I want you," is all he says and yet it sends an electric shock to Max's groin.

He is fairly certain there are some things he can't handle, there are too many horrible memories tied to every inch of his body. But his boy, his, he willingly and freely gave himself over to Max, responded with enthusiasm and asked for more, with his blue eyes like the clear sky and the memory of water, oh how Max wants to see every inch of his lanky body, wants to touch it all.

Something like a smile quirks at the corners of his mouth and he closes the gap between them, invading Nux's space the way the boy always invades his. Max's fingers feel clumsy with urgency, it's forever before he undoes the tool belts and then the war boy's pants. As Max shoves them down forcefully, Nux laughs, and the sound makes his heart ache.

Again he grabs the back of Nux's neck, kisses him, mouths moving in tandem, and he sneaks his other hand down and between them. He gently grasps Nux's dick and the boy shivers and groans into his mouth. As Max strokes him, slow, curious, learning the shape and feel of it by touch, Nux reaches up under his shirt and pinches his nipple. It's good, surprises him, and he squeezes harder in response.

"Ah," Nux sighs, his head lolling forward until his forehead rests against Max's. "Ah, that's good."

Untangling himself, Max drops to his knees, ignores the anxiety that threatens to swell, focusing instead of the shocked and delighted gasp Nux makes, the way his dick eagerly twitches. He grabs the base of it and licks at the head, swirling his tongue, flicking at the slit and tasting precum. He finds he likes the taste, Nux's taste, wants more. He takes the tip into his mouth.

Nux struggles to breathe above him and he brushes his hand through Max's hair, stroking it. When Max finally slides down, takes as much of his dick as he can, those fingers tighten in his hair, tugging gently. Getting a handful of the boy's ass, small and tight and firm, Max sucks hard, sliding up and off with a wet pop, and Nux nearly rips his hair out as he tenses from pleasure.

"So shiny," Nux whispers, staring hard at Max, making him a little self-conscious. "Take your shirt off? I want to see you."

Max ignores the request. He knows what his body looks like, the scars and burns that cover him from before, both from his time as a bloodbag and from the torture. The tattoo on his back, the brand on his neck. Sex he can handle, in this private moment with Nux, but he's not quite ready for that level of intimacy. Too much like baring his soul.

Instead, he swallows the boy's dick again, makes his mouth as tight and wet as possible, works quickly, glancing up to watch as Nux struggles to remain upright. The boy's face is gorgeous as it contorts, mouth open and slack, brow furrowed. He feels a wave of affection for Nux and is abruptly frightened, upset, and he understands that all his pretense of manipulation and control was just that, he was tricking himself.

Max groans, lost, and Nux gasps, "yes..."

Agony fills Max. Feeling like this is stupid, dangerous. It could jeopardize his escape. He can't leave Nux here now, leave him to the mercy of their common enemies, to a cruel fate at Joe's hands, but what can he do if Nux refuses to go. What kind of choice would that be.

But Max has to take him, because he might be falling for him.

"Max," the boy says, his voice almost a sob, bringing him back to the present. "Close, so close..." His hips move in small controlled thrusts, he can't help himself, and Max picks up the pace until Nux's body goes completely still and stiff. Cum floods Max's mouth, he jerks away as an unwanted memory threatens to surface, ends up with it on his face and shirt.

Nux cups his face, runs his thumb over Max's lips, smearing the cum there. "Glory be, Max," he whispers, awed, "look so good like that."

They stay that way for a moment, studying each other, asking silent questions and searching for answers. But his leg starts complaining so Max gets to his feet, unsteady, and almost immediately Nux circles his waist with his good arm, pulling him into a lazy satisfied kiss, the boy licking his own cum off of Max's full lips.

"Let me..." Nux says softly, pushing bodily against the older man until he's up against the wall again. Pinning Max with his shoulder, broken arm tucked between them, he slides his fingers through the fluid on his shirt, lifting them and slipping them into Max's mouth. Max licks him clean, eyes fluttering closed.

The hand withdraws but instead ends up on his stomach, rubbing small circles, inching the fabric of his shirt up by degrees. Letting him get used to it. He's easing Max into being touched, careful. After a moment, his hand slides down, dips under his waistband, fingertips and nails brush his hard-on and he inhales sharply.

"Please look at me," Nux murmurs, nuzzling Max's cheek.

Max opens his eyes, looks at his boy, the way he looks so languid and soft and hot, all for him. He clears his throat, nods, but when Nux actually takes hold of him, he's unprepared. It takes his breath away, how good it feels.

Nux's hands are rough with callouses, it feels so incredible it borders on pain, it's too much. Max grabs the boy's shoulder, feels the muscles shifting as he strokes his dick. He feels his orgasm building, the leak of his precum and the way it smears on his wrist.

The boy's mouth is on him again, sucking and kissing, and it's too much, it's too good. Max buries his face in his neck, gasping against his warm skin, and begins to cum, shaking, the relief of his orgasm raw and liquid.

He's so exhausted, his body feels loose, unstrung, and all he wants is to be in bed with his boy. He lifts his head and is caught in another kiss, less needy than before, now just sweet and exploring, kissing for the sake of kissing. When Nux pulls back, the adoration in his face breaks Max's heart all over again.

"Bed," he grunts, closing his eyes briefly against the future. Against whatever difficulties they'll have to endure thanks to these feelings surging through him, relentless like the tide.

Nux tangles his fingers with Max's and tugs him along, pulling him down onto the squeaky mattress. As Max settles in, grabs the blanket to pull over them both, Nux quickly shucks his pants off, laying back in Max's arms, pale body naked and scarred and perfect.


	11. Chapter 11

Max doesn't want to let Nux out of his sight. If it was bad before, his worry keeping him close, now it's inescapable. His feelings, traitorous, have given him a very small orbit around the war boy. He wants to hide together in this rooms and kill anyone that gets close. And when they need to leave, go get food or let the Organic check Nux's arm, any of the small necessities of life, Max wants to keep him on a leash. In this horrible, dangerous place, he doesn't know how to keep his boy safe.

Every hundred days or so there's a washing day. Joe and his sons the first day, then imperators, then further down the line, the water reused until it's brown and filmy when the war pups get scrubbed.

Gathering up their clothes, Max worries. They can't have their guns in the baths. And technically sergeants are expected to wait to bathe. Would it be safer to take Nux with him anyway, keep an eye on him, and risk drawing attention? Or to have him wait, armed, and stay off of Joe's radar?

Nux makes the decision for him. Claims he hates the old water, the crush of bodies, the horseplay. Says it as he grabs Max's hand, holds it tight. Making Max wince as his heart throbs. As pleased as it makes him, giddy almost, these feelings are a torment. He didn't want to care, didn't want to adore him, he'd tried to be immune.

The bath is in a dark cave-like room, the shadows unexpectedly cool and quiet this high up. Giant pools of water, a strange sight. Max tosses the shirts and pants and socks in before removing on his own clothes, forgetting himself. A startling hand on his back reminds him he's not alone and that his skin was once not his own. Unlike Nux, Max's scars are not art, they're not by choice. His tattoo, stark black against his tan skin, and his brand, the mark of the Immortan, these are both expected. Everyone in the citadel bears the brand.

It's his other marks he knows Nux is studying, jagged and angry, scars and burns that litter his flesh indiscriminately. His time as a bloodbag had left him relatively undamaged, the Organic Mechanic had been sure to take good care of a full-life universal donor. It was Deimos and Joe himself that marked him, made sure everyone that saw him would know the shame of his past.

"Don't," Max grunts, tossing his shirt into the pool. Quickly the hand withdraws and somehow it's worse this way.

"Your skin's so burnt," Nux murmurs. Well. Not quite what Max expected him to focus on. But then he thinks of the war boys, uniform in their white clay war paint, wonders if they ever remove it fully. They seem to always be covered, maybe Nux wasn't used to bare skin other than his own.

Max shucks his pants and steps into the tepid water, dragging them after. He hears the jangling of Nux undressing behind him, too embarrassed to turn and look, no matter how badly he wants to. Get an eyeful, really appreciate him without the heat of arousal driving him crazy.

The pools are deep to the point of waste, come up to his stomach. Kneeling, Max dunks himself into the water, rubbing his face and hair vigorously. As he surfaces, he inhales deeply, loving the ozone freshness of open water.

"I'll never get used to this," Nux laughs, splashing as he wades in. "Real different with the others! No room, lotsa pushing, no water left. I never get real clean."

Max turns to look at him, watches as he slips under the water to wash. The old dry clay sloughs off, as does the war paint on his face, and he pops up pink and youthful and grinning. Struggling to walk through the water, Nux grabs Max's waist and pulls him close. The kid is aggressively physical, demanding, forces his way past any hesitation or reservations Max may have.

"Not in here," Max says, eyes darting around. Imperators have the entire morning to bathe, are allowed to come and go as they please. They're alone now but it won't last. Besides which, it seems wrong to filthy the water up with their... fluids... when others are going to use it.

Nux licks and kisses his neck, his hand drifting down to squeeze Max's ass. "I need it," he states, as if it's that simple. Certain the world will work in their favor. The hand moves down, tries to slide between his legs from the back.

"Hey," Max hisses. He's already hard though and can feel Nux's answering erection pressing against his hip.

"Can't stop." Nux shifts, slots his body against Max until they line up, dick pressing against his. The boy makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, low and breathy. "Please, please? Kiss me."

Already too far gone, Max wraps his hands around those bony hips and and grinds hard on him. He finds his boy's mouth and opens it with his tongue, licking, sucking. Nux's body against his is slippery, slick, he pants hotly, brows drawing together. Muscles tense, lock, and Max knows he's close. "Good boy," me murmurs against his lips. "Cum for me." The words push Nux over and he squeezes Max's ass hard enough that he knows it'll leave handprints.

Max isn't far behind, pressing as close and hard as he can, the wet sounds of skin against skin making him groan, dick throbbing as he empties.

After a minute of clinging to each other, lethargic, Nux pulls away and gathers their clothes, squeezing them out and tossing them onto dry ground. When he climbs out, long arms and legs, tight muscle, Max hauls himself out as well, and they grab their soggy garments and troop them over to a patch of sunlight near an opening in the wall. Settling down in the sun, clothes spread out to speed up drying, Nux lays down with his head in Max's lap, looking absolutely content.

Max watches his drowsy face, watches as every inch of his body slowly relaxes in the sunlight. He knows he won't be able to pull of the rescue during the next supply run, he needs time to gather more supplies. They'll probably have a long trek ahead of them, though he doesn't know where they're going. Away. Anywhere. 

But how long will it take to convince Nux to come along, to betray his cruel god. How long to break him free of his brainwashing. Max won't leave Nux here. Even if he has to help his Sisters escape and come back. Even if it means facing punishment together. Facing death together. Because he's utterly smitten.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next couple of chapters are gonna be dark. Please heed the new tags.

Back to work. They can't hide away forever. Max finishes up the final touches on the war rig with Nux's help, then they check the Interceptor. Poor thing has been badly maintained by a bunch of mediocre mechanics that don't know it the way Max does.

And all the while, planning.

He won't leave Nux alone, doesn't matter if the kid is armed or not, there's no way it's going to happen. Not only because of the danger, really. He just likes being able to turn his head and see the boy, study the lines of his body when he's bent over, stretched and taunt, relive licking that particular stretch of skin. 

A lucky break once he really starts thinking about their escape. He can read and write, knows Miss Giddy taught his Sisters, so he writes a note and carries it everywhere. "Not this supply run, the next." Be prepared. Knowing the old woman is sympathetic to their escape helps, it's easier to get to her than the women, passes his note along to her in the hall as they pass each other. Knows she'll help them break out.

As the first supply run nears, Max counts the passing days and worries. He hasn't tried to broach the subject with Nux yet. They're happy right now, he doesn't want to ruin it yet. Afraid of the possibility of distrust and suspicion in those blue eyes. Almost better to not say anything, drag him along until he has no option. 

Day of the run. Produce, aqua cola, mother's milk. Gastown and Bullet Farm.

Max and Nux head to the room of worship, where the steering wheels are kept, Max's footsteps heavy. This should be an easy run, but easy still means killing. Buzzards are always a threat, Rock Riders too if they're feeling daring.

Max turns the corner, sees the dusty blue light spilling out of the doorway, then hears Nux cry in pain.

Spinning, Max is startled by a hissing spitting snarling face, feels pain in his guts from a sucker punch, ends up face down on the ground when his assailant punches him in the temple.

Groggy, head spinning, Max scrabbles in the dirt, confused, trying to get away but uncertain which direction away is. One set of boots in his line of sight, black war boy boots, then a different pair. Familiar boots. He's been on the ground in front of those boots before, knows the cracks and scuffs intimately. Max tries to yell but it comes out a low groan.

"Drag him to the Down Deep. I'll bring the other one," Deimos says, a laugh in his voice.

The war boy grabs Max roughly, stands him up, gripping his belt hard and dragging him along as he tries to get his feet under him. Everything is so blurry, his stomach lurches and he dry heaves. His captor doesn't stop.

He remembers the Down Deep, only went there once as a punishment when he attacked Joe and actually gotten a few good hits on him. It is a place for dying, where prisoners and bloodbags go to be forgotten next to the dead. Some rooms were just piles of the decaying, a carpet of corpses, some of them not quite gone yet, moaning and twitching feebly. It was a place for pain.

He didn't want to go to the Down Deep, and certainly didn't want Nux there.

Drunkenly Max kicks out, hits the wall, and the two of them stumble, but the war boy holding him is strong and stable, keeps trudging along. He can hear a quiet mutter, knows the voice belongs to Nux, can't comprehend what is being said.

They descend. People go past, other war boys in groups or singly, and they all avert their eyes, know better than to look. Whether this was mandated by Immortan Joe or not, it's best to pretend it never happened, especially not with two imperators involved.

The room Max is deposited in is cold, dark, ugly. His knees are kicked out so he lands on them heavy. Biting cold around his wrists, chains from the weight of them, binding his hands in front. 

Hazy, awful, he sees the shadowed figure of Deimos, Nux struggling in his grip even as the boy has to lean against the imperator. He hears Deimos speak, watches him leave. A scream rips itself out of his throat, echoes hollow and weak in the room. The torturer has his boy.

A hand grips his hair, jerks his head back so hard he feels like his neck breaks. "You filth, you insect, you put your hands on him!" Max can Slit see out of the corner of his eye. He raises his hands, tries to bat him away, but the war boy just grabs the chains around his wrists. "Imperator told me all about you, he saw you in the baths! Said he needed my help, said he'd give me back what's mine." He pushes Max's head forward, kicks him in the back so he ends up fetal on the floor." I should fucking rack you right now! He's not here to stop me, is he, maggot?"

Slit kicks him, but Max is already gone. Another kick, but it's nothing compared to what he's endured before. It's nothing compared to the fact that his enemy has Nux. Dissatisfied with Max's lack of reaction, Slit rolls him onto his back, straddles him, begins to punch him. Max struggles, squirms, tries to turn from those angry bloodied fists, but they don't stop.

"Put your fucking mouth on him! Touched him with your filthy hands!" Max stops moving, can't anymore, the pain is like a suffocating blanket over his body and brain. "You're just a bloodbag! You're a worm! You don't deserve him!"

Darkness threatens and Max welcomes it.


	13. Chapter 13

The pain of waking up is unbearable, but anxiety for someone else tightens his throat. Is it his Sisters? He can't recall, can't even remember who it was that beat him. Joe? Deimos? Pictures in his brain: Angharad's worried expression, the sight of familiar black boots, blood on a pale neck, fingers in his mouth. He is worried but he doesn't know why. Is it Angharad, is that why her face comes to mind? She's pregnant, Joe wouldn't risk hurting her. Is it Max himself? Is he finally dying? Has Deimos finally gone too far?

Max rolls over onto his back, whines in pain. He opens his eyes and it's not the vault and his Sisters are not there. Darkness, mustiness, a horrible putrid gassy smell lingering underneath. No muzzle, either. 

The Down Deep. Nux. Now it comes back and he screams. The physical pain is nothing, it's less than nothing, his boy is being hurt and the knowledge of it might kill him.

Max rolls onto his stomach, struggles to his feet. Thankfully Slit left his legs alone, he's dizzy from the abuse so he stumbles and trips and has to lean against the wall, but he's still able to walk. Into the corridor and the smell is stronger here, sickening, thick and meaty and sticky. A smell that gets inside the nose and lingers, clinging to your clothes and hair. 

A loud angry noise from the other end of the hall, Max can barely make it out, there's a loud ringing in one ear. Max stumbles over--no don't look, don't think about what wetly ruptures under his boot--and crashes into the wall, breath catching in his throat from the pain it brings. Slit grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks, sends him stumbling to land painfully on one knee. Raising his hands in supplication, Max keens between clenched teeth for both himself and his boy, even as the war boy's knee connects with his sternum.

Max falls to the ground, choking, gagging breathlessly as his fingers slide through the rotting mass below him. Again Slit lifts him by his hair and Max howls, "he's killing him!"

A pause. Max drags air in through his aching ragged throat, panting, eyes watering. The fist in his hair tightens and the boy growls, a warning to hurry up.

"Deimos..." Max wheezes. "Will kill... Nux..." He opens one eye cautiously, looks up at the scowling lancer, but Slit isn't looking at him. He's looking at the stairs at the end of the hall, thinking, eyes narrowed black pools in the shadows that surround them. Max decides to risk speaking again. If it will save his boy, he'll risk anything. "Save him..."

Slit's tongue pokes out, toys with the scabrous corner of his mouth. Considering. Whatever he feels towards Nux, whatever kind of cruel possessive love he has, is clearly being weighed against the hate he feels towards Max and the danger of angering Deimos. Max carries no weight here in the Citadel, but Deimos as Joe's personal imperator carries plenty. He grunts, a strangely high-pitched airy sound, frustration. "Where?"

"His rooms... Please, let me help..."

Snake-quick Slit's freehand grabs his throat, thumb and fingers pressing in tight, painful. He bares his teeth, threatening, and Max remains perfectly still, showing neither fear nor aggression. After a minute, the war boy lets him go completely and Max sags back against the wall. "Get to your feet," Slit snarls, kicking at Max's knee. "Won't unchain you, but you're coming."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hyaughhhh sorry it took so long! I'm curating a Fury Road fanzine, furyroadfanzine.tumblr.com Please check it out!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's a half-chapter because it's not from Max's Pov. Actually it's from the perspective of my Omc Deimos, which I really apologize for. Ahh I'm sorry it's not plot-advancing!! It popped into my head and it's where my brain wanted to go so here we are. If it's not your thing, I totally understand, feel free to skip. It shouldn't impact the rest of the story too bad if you do.

Interlude:

War boys are common fodder. 

Not as easy to steal as one of the Wretched, mind, but still common enough. They swarm through the citadel like ashen rats, filling every corner and crevice. Convinced they belong. Secure in their place, in their rank and order. Ignoring the death that comes for them, whether it's fiery on Fury Road or creeping through their very veins. Or grabbing hands in the darkness of the corridors they think they own.

Deimos is a cruel man, he acknowledges it with gusto. He has been lifted up by the Immortan for this very reason. He is the knife wielded by Joe's own hand, he is the blunt tool that cuts through the chaff, the scythe that reaps the rotten harvest. All of those trusting, pious faces, all mewling and whining, squirming like pale worms beneath the Immortan's boots.

War boys are almost as good to hurt as the Wives. Those flawless beauties, smooth skin and shining hair. Softer than any undernourished boy.

But. Even when he is permitted a little fun with the Wives, all under the Immortan's watchful eye, and never too much, not too hard or too sharp or too rough, even then the pleasure is diminished. Because of Max.

That thrice-damned lowly filthy animal. He could be one of the Wretched for how dirty and feral he is. Worse than them, actually, when he was first brought to the vault. An object. A blood bag. Property. Stinking and howling and snapping. His only redeeming feature his health. Endlessly healthy, never tiring, healing quickly. Healing so quickly that it became a challenge to hurt him enough to keep him down.

Thankfully, he'd been so scared and angry that his rebellion was also endless, giving Deimos plenty of time to explore just how best to hurt him. He'd worked him over hard, all those months, invented all manner of new and horrible tortures just for him. The only one able to withstand them.

And a biter. Always fighting, kicking and swinging his arms, snarling and spitting, and always biting.

Deimos eyes his index finger on his left hand, the jarring shortness of it, the smooth scarred flesh. Bitten down to the first knuckle. He smiles then, reveling in what had come after. The punishment for that. One full week, day and night.

He turns his gaze, inspecting the war boy he has chained to the floor of his private room. Painted up in clay, ready for war, but so thin and fragile when stripped of the accoutrements and tools of a sergeant. Just an angry child, yanking on the short chain keeping his neck pinned to the ring set in the floor. The chain is short and loops around his wrists as well, not even long enough for him to properly see Deimos without twisting his head. Stuck on his bound hands and knees. Shouting behind his gag but unable to remove it from behind the muzzle.

Deimos had saved Max's muzzle, had hoped to see the man in it again. This war boy was a poor substitute, but he belonged to Max, perhaps that would be enough.

"I did some nasty things to Max," Deimos says, the first words he's spoken since the war boy fully came to. He crouches down in front of the boy, watches him swivel his head in an effort to see. "Some really historic nasty things. Carved up his back. He let you see it, eh?" Deimos grabs the top strap of the muzzle and lifts the boy's head as far as it can go. "You did more than that. I docked you two in the baths. Drives me full on mad to think that... that... MUTT-" he emphasizes the word with a punch, knocking the boy's head back to the floor- "could be happy."

The boy's movements are sluggish and he groans low. Deimos sighs and again laments the fragility of war boys.


	15. Chapter 15

So many steps. So far. Deimos lives in the upper part of the citadel, closer to Joe than any of the other imperators. Max struggles to keep up, stumbling, eyesight blurring, air whistling hard through his clenched teeth. The pain is bad and the time it's taking to get to Nux is worse. Making it even harder, Slit keeps yanking on Max's arm, already tender from his earlier beating.

They march, Slit setting a quick pace, muttering under his breath. Thankfully he chooses a path that had minimal stairs, mostly just sharp inclines that leave Max gasping. It's obvious Slit is avoiding other people, making sharp detours when voices near. Concerned about what it would look like, a war boy dragging along a beaten imperator. Max still has rank even as an outcast. If Joe caught wind of this flagrant disregard for authority, the repercussions might be unpleasant.

The closer they come, the less people in the halls. Partially because only imperators reside here. Partially because of the unpleasant screaming. A hoarse, familiar voice. Slit tenses but hesitates, conflicted. In Max there is no conflict, no confusion. Shouldering Slit out of the way, Max races along the hall, ignoring the war boy's surprised yell behind him. Stumbling to a stop, Max throws himself past the tattered curtain acting as a door into a room he remembers well. Full of the detritus of life in the citadel yet devoid of furniture, leaving plenty of room for trussed captives to writhe on the floor for their tormentor. Max remembers full well collapsing under the strain of his agony in the center of that floor, watching Deimos' scuffed boots circling him.

The only thing Max sees though is his boy. A familiar position, on all fours, a short chain running from collar to an embedded hook in the floor to wrists, leaving Nux on his elbows. Worse still, the muzzle Max had to endure for years. A mocking reminder of his time as something less than human, less than even an animal.

Nux is screaming, Deimos leaning over him from the side, face whispering-close to the boy's ear. The torturer is frozen, watching Max warily, eyes narrow in his dark grease mask.

Max's stomach rolls, flips, when he notices the splint is off of Nux's arm, the skin twisted and lumpy with what is clearly the end of a broken bone pushing on it from the inside. It looks horrible, clearly the bone has been manually shifted, the arm twisted to inflict pain. Shallow cuts, already crusty with dried blood, litter his back, streaks of rust in the chalky paint. This is one of Deimos' favorite games: force a victim to remain upright until subtle pain takes the last of their strength away, give them a vicious beating as punishment, then repeat, test how much longer they can endure each time.

Realizing his abuse has stopped, Nux tries to twist his head to see look at Deimos then what the man is looking at, and for a minute Max is glad the boy can't see him, know the way dignity shreds when the torture is witnessed. Max takes an unsteady step, ready to kill Deimos, but behind him, Slit catches up, pushing him against the doorway so hard his injuries scream in unison. Slit surveys the scene and grunts. Max starts to turn his head, confused. He expected violence, screaming, but the war boy simply grabs hold of the back of Max's shirt hard enough to choke him. Slit's eyes are dark, full of anger, but he's practically hiding behind Max. Intimidated. Cowed by authority, afraid of being in Nux's place in the future.

“You were supposed to kill the smeg,” Deimos finally speaks up, grabbing the back of Nux's muzzle and forcing his head down. Not letting him see Max, not letting him take potential comfort in the sight of him. From the way the war boy's shoulders knot and he struggles against his bonds, he clearly understands who it is in the doorway despite this.

Slit pushes Max further into the room but keeps his grip on him. “You didn't tell you were gonna... do that.” His voice is a simmering threat and Max snarls at him, no longer feeling his own agony, ready to kill them both. He had thought Slit would be on his side, work with him to free his former driver. “You said he's mine, so I want him. Unchain him.”

Deimos hisses in mirth and Nux shrieks behind his gag, and the world turns red.

Max raises his fists and slams his elbow back into Slit's nose, painful enough on it's own but worse for the proximity to his broken cheekbone. Slit stumbles back, a horrible raw shout that sounds like twisted metal in his throat filling the room. Deimos is rising to his feet, a frighteningly familiar knife in his hand, grinning so that every big snapping tooth shines in the dull light, teeth made for biting, teeth that left their permanent impression in Max's skin.

Practically on all fours, Max launches himself at Deimos and slams his head into the man's stomach, knocking the air out of him, sending them crashing to the floor. Max's body is fire, his skin burning and cracking, his joints scraping raw in their sockets, every movement sends fire and needles and glass through his limbs straight to his brain. But it's doesn't matter. Pain is building on pain as Deimos struggles beneath him, kicking and punching and biting and gouging, but it doesn't matter because Max is made of pain. He is agony made flesh. He cannot be hurt because he is the embodiment of hurt, bringing suffering upon those that associate with him, bringing torment upon those he loves. Well, then, let him bring that torment threefold to those he hates.

Snarling, slavering, feral, Max sinks his thumbs into the eyes of the man beneath him, pushing past the resistance until the cornea gives way with a pop, an oozing wetness seeping warmly out. The scream Deimos gives is shrill, endless, and rings with total clarity in Max's head, bringing the scattered pieces of his mind back to a singularity.

Max tumbles backwards off of the writhing form of the other imperator, blinking rapidly, wiping the aqueous humor off on his pants without thinking. He sits for a minute, watches the way Deimos thrashes on the floor, fascinated, tries to see if any remorse is within him but finding himself curiously empty of it.

A low moan breaks his concentration. Nux is trying to say his name, the boy is watching him from the corner of his eye.

Anxiety grabs hold now and pain rears it's head, reminding him that he has to keep moving if he wants to escape. It's time. He can't wait any longer. This is an offense punishable by death.

Max kneels by Deimos and begins rummaging through his pockets until he finds the key to Nux's lock. It's strange to hold it, having seen it many times, teased with release with the key sitting innocently out of reach. As the other imperator struggles, his leg brushes Nux's arm and the boy gives a muffled whimper. Max clenches his teeth and remembers.

An eternity ago, it seems, Max had returned from the Buzzard hunt to find Nux working on something. Metal. A gift for him. Max reaches into a pocket of the war belt he wears, pulls out the small blade that fits so neatly in his hand, wrapping like brass knuckles between his fingers, pressing against his third knuckles. So small, but Nux made sure it was sharp. Without pause, Max reaches down and severs the torturer's jugular. The blood pulses out, but Max steps away, rushes to Nux's side.


	16. Chapter 16

Huddled together, stumbling, Max still chained, Nux still muzzled, they work their way down. Blood soaks them, most their own, some not. Max had searched as long as he'd dared, trying to find any key that might work on their locks and coming up empty. 

Nux is in stolen pants and boots, hunched around his mangled arm, whimpering with every step that jostles the bones. His eyes are blank and wet and he refuses to look at Max directly, had shied away from his touch after Max had killed Slit.

Max had to kill him, though, the boy could have raised an alarm before they escaped. And Nux needed his clothes. But more than that, what drove Max truly to the deed, was his part in Nux's abduction and abuse.

But the reasons hadn't mattered, Nux had still startled away from his bloody hands, had sucked an anxious breath in through his nose when Max had guided him towards the door. And Max's heart had still broken. What did he expect, he wonders. He's a feral dog, an animal, and for all the good he sometimes does, he does worse much more often.

They're seen, curious war boys stare at the two as they limp along the halls. It doesn't matter, as long as they keep their mouths shut. He prays their fear of punishment keeps them quiet.

When they get to the gardens, Nux is awestruck by the greenery and Max has to resist the urge to pull him along. The vault door is ahead. He forces his steps to quicken, Nux can catch up in a minute, he absolutely must open the vault door now. They have to hurry.

Inside, his Sisters are frozen, deer in headlights, until they see who it is. Someone gasps, another says his name, but he's dizzy with relief. They're alone, Miss Giddy is here, he has Nux. They can leave.

The women hurry to him, try to usher him inside, but they go silent when Nux finally walks up. War boys are dangerous potential enemies, but they recognize his muzzle, recognize the dull shock in his expression, and silently welcome him. Toast inspects his arm without touching after he flinches away, Cheedo drapes a quilt over his shoulders. And Nux just stares at the women, confused, frightened, cowed.

Max speaks to Angharad and Miss Giddy in anxious hushed whispers, his voice scratchy. It's painful to speak but he explains. Skips past the worst of the abuse, skips past the worst of the killing.

The Sisters are more than happy to agree. It's time. It's time to escape.

Max had given Miss Giddy some war boy clothing over the weeks, bits and pieces, pants and boots and the old ratty blankets they use as bedding, and the women clothe themselves, drape their heads and torsos, hiding their more feminine aspects so they could pass as war boys from a distance. If they all hurry, if they take back passages that few people use anymore, they may be okay.

Only one war boy stops them, demands the group uncovers themselves, and in deference to the Sisters' pacifist natures, Max beats him unconscious, all too aware of the way they too shy away from him after. It's worth it. He'll take their revulsion, their unease, bear that weight, if it means they can be free.

Only when the War Rig is in front of them does Nux touch him. The boy, once his boy, grabs his arm with his good hand, yanks hard as the Sisters make their way into the compartment in the tanker. Max studies Nux's face behind the muzzle as the war boy makes a questioning noise, trying to memorize the planes of his face, the angles of his bare chest.

Max touches Nux's neck, ignoring the way his skin twitches away from him beneath his hand. "We're leaving," he murmurs, trying for soothing. "We have to go. They'll kill us." Nux's brows furrow and he makes a hoarse, angry sound behind the gag. "Please." Another denying sound. "Nux, please. Don't make me do this."

Nux slaps his hand away, takes a step back. Horrified at what Max is proposing. Leaving the Citadel. Leaving Immortan Joe.

Wincing in pain at the movement, Max takes a deep breath. He knows what shape he's in, knows he's in serious trouble physically, but he refuses to acknowledge the extent of it, ignores the bright new agony in his side, hidden by his shirt, ignores the knowledge of how much worse it's getting with every passing minute. Instead, Max grabs Nux's mangled arm and ever so slightly pulls.

The curdled wet sound Nux makes fades as the boy passes out, and Max calls for Capable and Toast to help him drag the boy into the cab.


	17. Chapter 17

It feels like it's been days, years even, but it is only evening when they drive out of the Citadel. The same day. The rig is still stocked, unmoved as Joe and his sons undoubtedly search for him. Eager to punish. There had been no questions from the minimal security, mostly pups and new war boys, too intimidated to question an imperator in his War Rig. Thankfully they didn't know yet about whatever manhunt is undoubtedly occurring in the Citadel.

Max winces at the thought as he drives down Fury Road, then whines quietly at the pain the movement brings him, thankful the others are tucked away inside the tanker. Biting his lip, he reaches down, lifting his shirt hem without looking. Fingers the knife embedded there. When he'd attacks Deimos, Max had thought the knife was lost in the fray, thought it'd been dropped. Hadn't noticed until much, much later, when Miss Giddy had grabbed his arm as they hurried away from the vault and stared pointedly at the blood staining both shirt and pants.

His first thought was, he's ruining the belt Nux gave him.

Best not to think about it now. With the knife still in, he won't bleed out right away. And he has work to do. They'll be coming soon, once they realize what's happened under their noses, what's been stolen. He needs to get enough distance between them, a head start. When... When his end comes, he needs to know they're all safe.

It's some time before he hears the commotion over the noise of the engine and the wind. The hatch door pops open and Angharad pokes her head up, hair whipping wildly in the wind like sand in a storm.

"Your war boy's awake." Max glances at her, a silent question, and she frowns and shakes her head. "He's yelling and fighting but can't do much. Too hurt. Capable's seeing to him."

Max could almost smile. Capable. What an apt name. She'll be able to handle him, see to him. Especially... at the end. It's important. Nux'll need someone to see to him. 

"Where are we going?" Angharad asks after a long moment of silence.

They can't continue down Fury Road, it just leads to Joe's cronies. To capture and death.

Max blinks, grunts, turns the wheel sharply. Better to head out into the desert, better to die a clean death away from their tormentors. "East," he mutters, frowning. Angharad doesn't speak, sees his expression and knows her questions won't be answered. Or maybe she just knows where they go won't matter as long as it's away. 

She climbs out of the hatch instead, settles in the passenger seat, gazing out as the long road disappears behind them. When it finally vanishes from sight, blends in with the hazy wavering sand, she squares her shoulders, spine straightening, and smooths her hair away from her face. It's a subtle change, and it's so beautiful Max feels a prickling heat behind his eyes.

"Thank you," she sighs. Her words are caught by the wind and blown away.

Max swallows hard, swallows the lump in his throat down. Tries to kill the unbearable storm of emotions in his chest. "How're his injuries?"

Settling back against the door, Angharad stares at Max, brows drawn together. She knows there's more to the question, it's as pregnant as she is with meaning, but she isn't sure what the real question behind it is. "Hurt. He'll survive it, though. Won't let us set the arm. Head butted Toast when she tried." She's holding back a laugh at the memory and Max finds he has to as well. She continues after a moment. "Crazy. Real angry. Real scared."

Doesn't hurt as bad as he'd expected, hearing it. Angry. Angry at Max for stealing him away. For taking him from the only life and lord he's ever known, from a life he was good at, from praise and the comfort of the familiar. And for what. Nothing. For nothing at all because Nux hates him now. Hates him and doesn't understand that Max will, no, IS dying for him. To save him. To give him another chance at a life as more than just battle fodder.

Maybe the boy will understand it one day. Max hopes he does. Hopes he comes to remember their brief time together with something like fondness.

Soft colored puffs of smoke grab his attention, and he knows there's no more time for maudlin sentimentality. "Get back in the hole," he grunts. They're coming for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to hint at the injury in earlier chapters so no one was too surprised...


End file.
